


Rings

by HedgeWitch



Category: Star vs. The Forces Of Evil
Genre: Depression, Gore, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s03e01-07 The Battle for Mewni, Self-Harm, Spoilers - The Battle For Mewni, ish, ptsd themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HedgeWitch/pseuds/HedgeWitch
Summary: Ever since regaining his body, Toffee has been acting weird.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Ever since coming back to life (again) Toffee had acquired a habit (though Rasticore thinks it’s more of a nervous tick) of playing with his ring finger - twisting, tugging and scratching at it whenever he wasn’t moving around and focusing his hands on something else. Rasticore knows it’s the same finger the Butterfly princess cut off with her damned magic and he always worries when he sees Toffee twisting it, as if trying to rip it off, heck he once even joked that if the other man continued doing that, the finger would fall off. Toffee’s reaction… well…  
  
Suffice to say, Rasticore would not joke about it anymore.  
  
But he still worries. Days pass and starts to notice the bruises which don’t heal in time. Sometimes he takes the hand in his own, pressing fingertips as gently as possible to the knuckles, massaging. Toffee sometimes looks lost, sometimes allows him to kiss away the bruises but more often than not he snatches the hand away and disappears for hours. He never speaks of what he does when he’s gone, but he always comes back smelling like forest and metal, allows himself to be held and for Rasticore to take away the tenseness of his muscles.  
  
It’s a routine, a sad and worrying one but still a routine and Rasticore likes routine. Reminds him of his army life back when he never even hoped about his crush being reciprocated ut if he’s hones with himself, he’s not entirely sure we didn’t prefer it. He loves Toffee, he knows that but even with the other man in his arms he doesn’t think he has him. His general was always controlled and silent but back then, those twenty years ago his eyes had more life in them. He doesn’t know if he makes the right choice staying here. He loves Toffee but is it really healthy to stay in these ruins of a temple long forgotten?  
  
Those thoughts become more and more common as the days go by and sometimes he’s worried that something in him changed and Toffee will know what he’s thinking, that he has doubts. Toffee always read people perfectly but now he’s just silent and grey. Even his eyes, the only real colourful part of him seem washed out. He still speaks to people, to the group of monsters who grows every day as word gets by that The Lizard is not a myth and he really may be back, may once again fight again the Mewnian oppression. He still has this powerful persona, when standing in front of the crowd but that disappears the moment they are alone and one hand closes over the knuckle of the offending finger. Rasticore hates that body part and hates Moon for taking it away and returning it and hates Toffee for living in the past and hurting himself everyday, too focused on something but never telling Rasticore what it is. The bounty hunter wants to leave, wants to get back to St. O’s with the tail between his legs and an apology on his tongue. He knows Heinous would have him back right away and frankly the knowledge makes his skin crawl a bit but it was a life he enjoyed. But he loves Toffee, even though sometimes he needs to remind himself of that (it would be easier if they thought maybe, the passion is still there but Toffee is so god damned passive with him), he just wants Toffee to stop focusing on that fucking finger.  
  
It hits him one day when he’s tinkering with his metal arm, an idea, a risk he wants to take. It takes him a few days but he finds what he needs. Scrap metal, fine silver wire, bits  and pieces. His hands are big and fingers thick and not made for fine work but he wants to do it himself, twisting the wire, bending the spangles, cutting his fingers on the edges because despite what he wants he’s still an impatient asshole and sanding metal takes a long while but it’s finally smooth and no way anyone could get cut on it.  
  
He waits until the end of their supper, the piece of metal digging into the skin of his hand. If Toffee noticed (or cared) that he’s using his left hand to eat despite the problem it brings him, he keeps silent about it. But the food is eaten and the bowls removed and Rasticore gulps nervously and then crouches next to Toffee, his snout pressing to the other’s shoulder. Toffee hums in response and it’s a good sign, he’s not being ignored. He sighs and reaches for the smaller, grey hand, silently glad that he’s allowed that (it’s a good day). He presses the piece of metal into the hand and closes his eyes (he’s not a coward. He’s just bracing himself). The silence makes his skin crawl.  
  
\- Rast? - oh how long has it been since Toffee used that nickname? Feeling brave he dares to open his eyes and looks at the other man looking at the gift, brows furrowed and eyes wide. Rasticore moves his eyes to the other’s hand and to the heavy ring laying in the middle of it. It’s a bit uneven and maybe dented but the thinner hoop wrapped over the main body of the ring is working fine, spinning as directed by one’s fingers. He shrugs  
  
\- Stress ring? I…thought you’d like it. - he scratches at his frill - Made it myself and it’s not much but it works and…  
  
He takes the ring and puts it on the hated digit and a part of him is exasperated by how well he predicted the size. He spins the band a bit before daring to glimpse up with a dopey grin (he’s still in one piece) which almost drops at the look Toffee is giving him, nervousness giving way to quickly growing concern. Toffee is looking at him not through him (for the first time in how long?), but his eyes are glassy, a flush on his snout. Does he have a fever? Is he sick? For a split second Rasticore panics that Toffee is allergic to the metal used and ok he knows it’s bullshit but stillToffeewhatthehell–  
  
He must have spoken the last part out loud because Toffee seems to shake himself awake, eyes squeezing, a few droplets escaping from under the eyelids (oh) but there’s a smile on his face (he’s smiling!) and he moves closer to Rasticore, long arms wrapping around his shoulders - and when did he moved to his knees - and his snout pressing under the bigger man’s chin.  
  
\- I love it Rast. - he whispers - You always take such a good care of me and I’ve been awful to you lately. - and oh, there’s a tongue pressing to that spot where his jaw meets his neck and he feels his legs turning to jelly - I’ll make it up to you. - a nip of sharp teeth - Let me take care of you.

 

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by my muse Rictus! Go, read Carry Him Out if you want quality tofficore! And visit https://komododragonhustler.tumblr.com/ for wonderful art!


	2. Chapter 2

The ring's uneven surface seems to shine in the moonlight.  
He feels like an idiot. When he saw the ring, for a second there he thought that Rasticore might have--  
  
But it's a foolish thought, the custom is not a monster one, was never a Septarian one and Rasticore wouldn't have many chances to learn what it might have been taken as.  
  
Nonetheless he curses himself, his stupidity and the foolish traditions he learned over the years (how better to defeat the enemy than by knowing everything about them?). Toffee leans back against the bedpost and feels Rasticore's arm - the metal one - tighten against his waist as the younger man sleeps. He runs his his fingers over the deep gashesh on his back, a flush of embarassment on his cheeks. He went overboard, the wounds may be closing but he's worried that he hurt Rasticore too much when he, when he..  
  
  
Panicked.  
  
  
He actually panicked. The ring was warm and heavy against his skin and he really thought that Rasticore would ask him. The last weeks where difficult, with his stress with the chronic pain of a body that have been healed (but was it his?), the constant myriad of thoughts (am I who I think I am?), he needed to lash out, hurt, maim. Rasticore was the closest but he did not want to hurt him, not like that. He run, he hunted, stalked his prey - animals, Mewnians, feral monsters, it did not matter, what mattered was to kill kill kill and calm down and come back to the waiting arms of the only person who understood.  
Some part of him, one that still remembers the ballads of old and bits of the romantic tales his sisters talked about, wishes that it was Rasticore who had found him, scooped him into his arms not caring he was nothing more than a tar covered skeleton rather than Septarian.  
  
But his life was never easy, nothing good had ever come to him. He needed to fight for every scrap, twice - four times as hard as anyone else for being born a runt. Slender as a teen, he worked hard to keep the body in shape, to still feel imposing despite being not more taller than a Mewnian man (he was so envious of the adolescent boy who joined his regiment, so young and already slightly taller than him, with wide shoulder and strong arms. He loves those arms now). No, his life was never easy even back before the Mewnians came but now? He remember waking up, under that pillar, part of the great temple. It has taken him days before he managed to crawl out from under it, slowly move across the open space of the crater to find a safe place to hide. Weeks of pain, regenerating, the only source of sustenance being insects and the occasional rat that got too curious. Rain hurt, the cleansing nature of it burning at the broken magic that run over him.  
  
It's been months after regaining his body (years after the battle with Moon) when he saw Rasticore again. He was taller, bigger, but the hand and eye were still lost (he hates it and hates himself for it), a chainsaw at his side and a growl in his voice. Gods, he was beautiful then and the way his eyes lit up with recognition! The way he almost swept Toffee from his feet when puling the former general into almost bone breaking hug, the way he blushed and stammered afterwards.  
  
Toffee has already died twice, maybe third time was the charm and he'd stay dead. It wouldn't do to leave this world forever without at least trying, would it? Shy smiles and gentle touches, a blush from Rasticore, a giant grin of his own.  
Rasticore kissed him first and it was awkward, with too much saliva and teeth and their snouts bumped a bit and Toffee would never exchange that kiss for any other.  
  
And Rasticore tells him how he grew up listening to tales of the Great General and how he was dumbstruck when he saw him first. And that he thought Toffee to be an asshole and that the stories were a lie before he saw the compassion in the other man and how he protected the children and helped the wounded and always jumped first into the battle and tried protecting his men. He tells Toffee how the childhood admiration reignited, along feelings he never thought he'd feel towards a man and how he never acted n them because it was war and he was his superior but Rasticore promised himself to try after it all would be over. And it's sad and sweet and Toffee curls against the bigger body, his tail wrapping itself around he other's.  
  
And for some time he was even able to keep the nightmares at bay, the first weeks were beautiful and the pain was bearable and it was so good to just lay his head on that broad chest and breathe.  
  
But then the doubt started and the pain came back. His body was more corrupted magic than flesh before the Butterfly princess shot him. What if he wasn't Toffee but only a memory of his that grabbed upon the magic and refused to come back? When the Earth boy punched him he did no bleed. He bleeds now but is it possible to regrow oneself from only the finger? Was that enough to overcome the magic? He bleeds now, bruises and heals and it has become a maddening ritual for him. Scratch at the place where his finger connects with his hand, tear at the skin with held breathe, awaiting blood but dreading to see the black ooze of corruption.  
  
Rasticore seems so far away now. He still shares his bed but if they do not have sex then he always comes to it late in the night and wakes early in the morning, earlier than Toffee even (Rast always hated early mornings) and is out before the other man can get fully get his bearings, with only a gentle kiss to the top of his head. He's still a furnace but Toffee can't help but feel that there is a coldness between them and he shivers a the thought but Rasticore, his beautiful Rasticore who always thinks about others pulls him closer and wraps the blankets tighter around both of them, trying to massage the warmth back into his muscles.  
  
But he's so far away now, in the waking hours and Toffee is afraid but his mind is a mess and maybe it's better that way? If he's not Toffee bu his memory then the real Toffee loves Rasticore just as much (more) and Rasticore should have the best, the boy went through so much, he lost his arm for him for god's sake. It's the thing, it has to be the thing, Rasticore knows he's not Toffee and is freaked out and this is why he's moving away from him. This is what will happen to you, this is what you deserve, you are nothing, just a shadow of the real thing. The voices are getting louder, laughing into his ears. He hunts, screams of his prey silence the laughter for a moment, enough for him to collect himself and be a presence for his people (until real Toffee comes back).  
  
  
Rasticore hasn't slept in their bed last night.  
  
  
He was on guard duty but usually came back to Toffee after his shift - but he knows (he has got to know) that this is not Toffee so why should he come to the bed with this thing, this fake shadow of the real thing? He waited for him, he really did until his body couldn't stand being awake for longer. The day is sunny and the hunting party came back with enough food for the whole camp and people are happy and cheerful and Toffee just feels dead so when Rasticore comes over to him and asks to join him for supper he knows this is it so he nods and tries for a tired smile. - Haven't slept well... - he says at the questioning look and it's only a half-lie but Rasticore's face grows serious and maybe a little bit sad and Toffee know it's because he's weak, because real Toffee is strong and will protect Rasticore - protect them all from the Mewnians. Part of him wishes Rasticore would not wait until night with the talk. Break with him like ripping off a band-aid. But he would not end there. You're not Toffee, you'll never be him, what do you think you're doing among us. You're not one of us! You tricked me into loving you but I could never love such a wretched thing! He should scream it at his face in the middle of the camp, show the other monsters that their beloved leader is fake, not the real thing. Would they chase him out? Attack him? Bite and claw at this body? Would they try to kill him? He scratches at his knuckles.  
Red.  
  
\- Rast? - his voice cracks a bit but his whole being is focused only on the heavy warmth on his shoulder and the metal ring in his palm. It's a ring, dented, uneven, one thinner band wrapped around the other, the little thing clearly has been made by hand, without the use of designated tools. Rasticore has made him a ring and the mere concept makes his throat tighten with emotion.  
\- Stress ring? I…thought you’d like it. - Rasticore scratches at his frill - Made it myself and it’s not much but it works and…  
  
Oh.  
  
A stress ring. Because he noticed that Toffee hasn't been himself lately (because he isn't).  
  
He moves to put the ring on Toffee's finger - the one once cut off by magic. Toffee remembers that Mewnians call it the ring finger because it's where the couple wear the bands. He squeezes his eyes, foolish thing for a moment there he really thought that Rasticore might have asked...  
  
But he's not Toffee and he does not deserve to think about those possibilities. But Rasticore, his beautiful Rasticore (not his, never his) always thinks about others and he just wanted to help this wretched creature. But he's concerned, worried and maybe Toffee still has a chance. Maybe Rasticore still does not know he's not the person he fell in love all those years ago, maybe he still has time.  
  
Rasticore panics at something that he sees in Toffee's face and he feels wet on his cheeks. Tears. The younger man is babbling, clearly worried, he thinks Toffee's...allergic to metal?  
  
He laughs, sound a bit wet, bit sad.  
  
\- I love it Rast. - he whispers - You always take such a good care of me and I’ve been awful to you lately. - and oh, there’s a tongue pressing to that spot where his jaw meets his neck and he feels his legs turning to jelly - I’ll make it up to you. - a nip of sharp teeth - Let me take care of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a monster and identity crisis as a trope is my jam.


	3. Chapter 3

Moon told her people that the monster army disbanded as soon as they saw that their leader was not unbeatable, painting them as a group of cowards and idiots who wouldn't be able to do anything without a leader.

  
She lied.

  
Toffee would never back down, the spell confused him, a ringing sound in his ears making it difficult to focus but he did try raising to his feet, growling and baring his teeth.  
The young queen must have panicked, the spell already on her lips when he stumbled onto his feet, a flash of magic.

  
-

  
Toffee still has nightmares about it. Sometimes he wakes screaming and biting, clawing at the sheets. Sometimes he just tenses awake, chest constricted so hard he can't take a breath until he finds the other's hand in the dark. Rasticore knows the signs and his body learned to wake up before Toffee - to calm the other down or for his own safety when the bloodlust is strongest. He hates the Mewnians for destroying Septarsis, for the memories of the empire destroying his loved one's mind.  
Toffee never speaks about the nightmares, never mentions how Rasticore is wrong about what memory emerges during the night. The screams of his people follow him through every waking hour of the day but during night a difference scene takes their place.  
He sees the body, ashen grey in place of shiny, vibrant green, left arm (and isn't it ironic that it's the same one he laughingly pointed at Moon just minutes before?) rotted away in seconds, the eye long gone. No one speaks, the Mewnian Queen pale and afraid, who knew the young Septarian would be so faithful to his General?

  
The curse was meant to kill them. If he had not stepped it, if he did not act so quickly, Toffee's wretched body would be in his place.

The ringing in his ears grows louder, blocking all the other sounds. Rasticore, his name was Rasticore. Young man joined the army only months prior, so happy and full of life, not knowing when to shut up and constantly questioning, defying his superior.

  
_"Frankly sir, I think it's a load of warnicorn shit!"_

  
He... liked that boy. He liked how he was a loudmouth, a smartass, a great fighter who would achieve so much with proper training. How he joked around and how he was not afraid of him. All the men and women in the army treated Toffee with respect and a dose well deserved fear. Rasticore was not like that, he joked with him, trying to make him smile, treated him like a comrade in arms.

  
He stumbles towards the body, legs - no, his whole body shaking in shock. He drops to his knees, gaze focused on the other's face his right hand touching the other's face, looking into the empty eye socket and the discoloured flesh of it. Some part of him thinks he should at least be aware that the Mewnian has not left but it's quickly squashed because this, this is Rasticore, this is more important, this is a man who wanted to befriend him, this is a man who cared, this is a man who cared and he cared for, who made him think, question, wonder...

  
An animalistic howl breaks through the ringing noise and he jumps to his feet, seeing red and the _Mewnian_. The young girl stumbles back in shock, wand up but he's faster this time. She screams in pain and far when his jaws close on her wrist, wand still in hand, one clawed hand grabbing at her stomach, the other closing on her hair, there's a crack of bone and he snaps his neck to the side, ripping the limb out. She screams louder and he claws at her, pulls the blue hair out with pieces of skin, fingers digging into soft flesh. Her screams get wetter and wetter, giving way to gurgling, ugly red tinted foam gathering at the corners of her mouth until she finally falls silent. But his not done, he attacks the body until it's nothing more than pieces of meat, bone of cloth.

  
People are screaming around him, Mewnians trying to attack and his own monster army, weapons raised and teeth sharp, running at them. It's a blood bath, a real blood bath and he's still digging at the remains of the body and the bloodied earth beneath it until one sound breaks through the commotion.

  
He jumps at the sound, a disturbing chuckle. It's not louder than the sound of battle but clearly audible, the screams of fighters more an annoying background noise. He looks at where Rasticore's body lays and feels bile raising in his throat. The spell must be still working, his body still rotting away from where it hit, showing quickly darkening bone. There's no blood in his body, but the wounds ooze with black and green and he knows, he knows what it is. He has to know but the thing continues to chuckle and if he just could focus!  
Rasticore - that thing _wearing_ Rasticore is so close. How is it close? The body did not move, but he feels cold fingers on him, spreading the ooze on his skin, the empty eye socket gazes at him in a sick parody of a lover's look but how does he see it when it rotted away?  
He's trembling and cold and slimy and Rasticore is rotting, rotting, rotting away until he's no more and his looking into his own eyes, peering at him from the black, slimy abyss and it's own voice, angry, accusing.

  
_"Give me back my life."_

  
And he's whole again and _looking at himself_. Suit well pressed and not a hair out of place, calm but angry, Toffee's hands - finger missing - squeezing the life out of him and he feels the rot in his blood, the corruption of magic melting at his body - because it's not his body, never was, and he's dying (how can he die, he was never really alive) and Toffee's laughing and Moon is laughing and where is Rasticore?

  
_Rast-Rast-Rast!_

  
He awakes with a gurgling sound and quickly rolls away from Rasticore, to the edge of the bed, retching. In the dark the contents of his stomach look almost black and something in  him breaks. He gasps for breath, the acid making his throat tighten in pain, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, ripping whole strands out, claws digging into the delicate skin drawing blood. He feels Rasticore's hands on his back and shoulder, thinks he hears him making some sound but it's almost inaudible over his own sobs and cackle so violent he knows his muscles will hurt in the morning but what is the point? He should tell Rasticore. The man would him kill him and be able to set out to search for the real Toffee.

Would he merciful and end him with a swift blow? Would he deliver him to the Mewnians so they could study the corruption? He feels hair catching at the ring on his finger - Rasticore's ring - and vomits again and it's only bile and pain and the salt of tears and then there's Rasticore again, pulling him against his chest, not caring about the vomit or tears or snot and his nuzzling his face gently and there's the soothing sound again - a lullaby? - and Toffee loves this man so much (when was the last time he told Rasticore that? Did he tell him that?) and he wants to press his face against his chest and he wants to talk but he's afraid, so afraid and he knows he should not be here (he should not be alive) but he just curls into a tight ball and lets Rasticore hold him and love him and it just _hurts_.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cover art by mu muse Rictus! https://komododragonhustler.tumblr.com/


End file.
